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CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

O ptimism was a little hard when a hundred-strong army blocked their access to Wylnarren. The Hunchback Hills loomed behind the ruins, the bones of what was once a prosperous town arrayed randomly—a surviving doorway here, a whole wall there, a crumbled temple at the end of a road that had been caved in, and giant holes left where explosives had clearly been placed. And blocking their way into the ruined town were soldiers in a dozen different uniforms, bearing a varied collection of weapons.

Isak picked out several in the familiar uniform he’d spent years wearing in the Vassalian army, others belonging to those higher in the ranks, but there were the dusty brown of Venhausian soldiers, the mottled forest green of Thelleus’s specialised teams, and even the smoke-grey of Aether’s warriors.

“A militia,” Kaladeir Nysavion spat, his expression sending a little shiver down Isak’s spine. The king consort didn’t take his eyes off the soldiers, the militia, waiting for him under a washed-out silver sky, and Isak wondered if he was even seeing them or if he was remembering the day Wylnarren fell. When, as rumour went, the queen of Sainsa’s own sister tried to have her and Kaladeir assassinated.

It wouldn’t surprise Isak. Ismene Delakore was a raging bitch with evil in her veins. Killing her own sister was hardly a stretch for someone like that. But the queen and her consort had never been here, and they’d survived. The rest of the town wasn’t so lucky. Twenty thousand were slaughtered in a single day.

“We crushed the militia years ago,” Harth said in that authoritative voice that had commanded countless troops. A voice Isak stood straighter and took notice of even if it pissed him off. “And none of those uniforms are Sainsan. So whose militia is it?”

“Does it matter?” Isak muttered, giving both royals a stern look, pretending to be braver than he actually felt. He wanted to tuck his tail and run, but they’d made it this far, and the legendary sword capable of killing a saint was somewhere in these ruins. “They’re in our way, so let’s go make some friends, shall we?”

Harth’s golden hand shot out and grabbed Isak’s arm as he took a step. “What the chasm do you think you’re doing? They’ll shoot you. Look, there are archers in the back, and the ones in the front are likely magic wielders.”

Isak bared his teeth in a smile and crooked a finger at the darkness that writhed in his veins, letting a little out to play. “Don’t worry, general, I can handle myself.”

“You’re not going alone to face unknown enemies,” Harth said firmly, like a foregone conclusion, an order no one would dare to defy.

Isak patted his hand and removed it from his arm, flexing his other hand on his stick. The sword he took from Rushkar was sheathed down his spine; he had a weapon if he really needed one. But since leaving the army—well, since fleeing for his life—he’d yet to find a situation he couldn’t talk or seduce his way out of. And at the front of the many-uniformed militia, two women had broken away from the ranks.

“This is my assignment,” he said, cutting off Harth when he began to speak. “It started with me, and it is my responsibility to end it. Plus, you and dick consort here look too fancy and official; you’re just going to threaten them.”

“Or they’ll be insulted we sent a commoner to deal with them,” Kaladeir argued, already taking a step.

Fuck that. “This is about saving my brother and your daughter, unless you’ve forgotten. And since you haven’t shown yourself to give two fucks about her before now, forgive me if I want to handle this personally. You can’t speak passionately in defence of someone you haven’t met in thirteen years.”

And with that parting shot, Isak shook Harth off and strode across the sloped land towards the militia and the two women walking out to meet him.

“I like him,” Arna commented. “He’s got nerve, that’s for sure.”

“Harth,” Kaladeir barked in a clear order. Isak caught a glimpse of the prince following from the corner of his eye, but he stopped at his father’s command. “Not until we know who we’re dealing with.”

Real classy. Kaladeir wouldn’t risk his precious son even to save his daughter from psychotic saints. Or psychotic whatever he thought had actually kidnapped her, since he was in denial about the saints.

Asshole, Viskae spat. I’m surprised you haven’t kneed him in the dick yet.

I doubt he’s got one.

Typical man, Viskae scoffed at his remark. Thinking bravery and goodness are tied to having a penis.

Yeah, yeah, let’s have a chat about problematic shit I say when we’re not walking across a scarily open field towards an unknown army.

Militia, she reminded him airily.

Isak ignored her and put his game face on, keeping his grip loose and easy on his stick as he walked, his muscles loose and ready, the dark magic that swirled through his blood alert and waiting. It would drain every bit of life left in this town if he gave it permission. Not that there was much left in the razed buildings. Even the grassy slope he descended was brown and dry, scarred by the massacre that took place here.

The closer Isak got, the clearer the uniformed soldiers became, confirming his suspicions about their clothing choices. At least four different armies were represented here, maybe more in the back where he couldn’t quite see. Were these all supplied by those armies to guard Wylnarren—or more likely this damn gold box—or were the uniforms stolen? Militias weren’t known for rolling in coin, so pilfered clothes would make sense. They seemed to be holding whatever weapons they’d found, which backed up that theory—everything from half-rusted swords, pikes, spears, long daggers, plus the archers in the back, and even a mace.

“Been a long time since I’ve seen a mace,” he remarked when he was close enough to the two spokeswomen to hear.

The woman on the left was tall, although dwarfed by the other, and didn’t have the typical build of a warrior, willowy and graceful instead of muscular. Long black hair had been braided back from her warm bronze face, the twisted hair slapping her shoulder as she strode closer. She was younger than he’d expected, maybe twenty, maybe younger, but the sharp slash of black eyebrows above her narrowed eyes assured Isak she was anything but harmless. So did the thin swords crossed on her back, the golden hilts poking above the shoulders of her black leather jacket. Neither of these women wore uniforms, dressed instead in solid black.

A little shudder went down Isak’s spine, but he ignored it and pressed on, walking so his limp was more pronounced, needing every advantage he could get. Although the eagle eyes of the other woman, the obvious warrior, probably already had his number.

“Any closer and you’ll be seeing that mace up close,” she replied, her voice carrying across the distance with ease.

Isak paused where he was, not glancing back to see if anyone had decided to come after him. He gave the women all his focus, most of his attention on the warrior. She was huge, literally packed with muscle from her thick brown neck to her shoulders, her biceps, and the powerful thighs that promised she’d be fast. Maybe faster than Isak could move.

Not if you let your magic out, Viskae disagreed, her voice tense like she too was ready for a fight.

Two against one wasn’t the best odds when that warrior reminded him of the gatekeeper who’d snapped his wrist, and the other woman was glaring so hard Isak was surprised she hadn’t seared a hole in his forehead.

He tensed when the warrior’s dark hand drifted to the sword at her hip, the threat landing effectively. If he made one false move, she’d split him in two. He fiercely missed Anzhelika and Sunny; it hit him all of a sudden. But Anzhelika had run into the chaos of Saintsgarde to find her mate instead of joining him, and Isak could hardly begrudge her that. He hoped they were alright. Worry burned behind his breastbone, joining his panic about Jaro and Maia.

Focus, Viskae snapped. There’s something about these two. Power.

Isak knew exactly what she meant when he met the rich brown eyes of the warrior and a ripple went through him, raising all the hairs on the back of his neck. Oh yeah, she had magic and all his instincts were warning him he was in danger. He reached deeper into his own dark power and wondered if Viskae would finally grant him some of her saint shit instead of rationing it.

It’s not the right time, she said, as she always did.

Sure, being confronted by a hundred enemies wasn’t the right time.

Isak raised his voice to carry across the ten feet between him and the two women of the militia. “Who might you ladies and your fabulous army be?”

If nothing else, he knew how to charm a woman.

“None of your damn business,” the warrior snapped, squaring her shoulders. Isak had the sense she was picturing squashing his eyeballs out of his skull or maybe driving her sword through his gut. He thought of Tynenn, left cold on the floor of the crypt, and winced. “Who the fuck are you?”

“Isak Sintali, official spokesman of this ragtag group and—oh shit,” he breathed because the tall woman with the braid had launched into a sprint and there were only seven feet between them, then four, then two.

Reacting quickly had never been Isak’s strong suit. He was still reaching for the dark roil of poison in his blood when she slammed into him so hard he staggered back, only his stick keeping him upright. Like a dumbass, he didn’t even think to draw the sword, and now she’d murdered him and—

Wait. She was hugging him.

“Holy shit,” she breathed, squeezing his middle so hard his ribs protested. Maybe this was a new torture invented where they’d come from. Isak began the process of detangling himself, a nervous laugh in the back of his throat, but a massive weight slammed into his right, knocking his stick from his hand. The impact was enough to bruise his ribs and he let out an oof as the collision winded him.

“Fucking hell, kid, you’re alive.”

Alright, that was enough of that. “I’m not a kid, and I’d thank you to stop crushing my lungs.”

The brawny warrior snorted and squeezed him tighter, making him grunt, before she released him. She didn’t step back though, just stared at Isak so intently that he grew uncomfortable. And then she ruffled his hair, ignoring the baffled look he gave her. “You’re my best friend’s little brother, you’ll always be a kid.”

“I’m your—” Isak blinked, processed, and then laughed. “You’re fucking joking.”

“I’m fucking not.” The warrior grinned, no longer resting her hand on her sword’s hilt or looking inclined to peel his skin from his bones. He liked this development. Isak was a big fan of keeping his skin on his bones.

“You know Jaromir?” he asked, unsure how to detach the clinging weight on his left. Ah, shit, she was crying. Isak patted her shoulder.

You’re shit at comforting people, Viskae said.

I learned it from you, he replied sweetly.

“We’re here looking for him,” the bronze-skinned barnacle with the braided hair said, releasing Isak to scrub her face. The warrior noticed her tear-bitten cheeks and hooked her into a tight hug. Clearly this duo were big huggers. “He left Vassalaer with a small group on a rescue mission.”

Isak winced. “Yeah. It didn’t go well.”

“You’ve seen them?” the younger woman demanded, reaching for his arm and gripping tight. “When? Where are they now?”

“Uh, who exactly are you two?” Isak asked. He believed their reactions were genuine, but he didn’t know who the hell they were, and he’d survived thus far by being wary.

“Zamanya Caliax. I know your brother well, kid. He’s one of the most important people in my life.”

“I’m Evrille Plunaron,” the woman with the braid said, still holding onto him, her blue eyes the colour of dark sapphires and full of hope. “If you found Jaro, you must have met Azrail, my brother.”

“Ah, shit,” Isak whispered, raking a hand over his face.

“What happened?” Zamanya asked warily, effectively guessing it wasn’t good.

“I don’t have time to explain, but I do know how to save them,” Isak said, rushing into a description of the golden box and how they’d tracked it to these ruins.

“Save them from what?” Evrille asked, scrubbing her face dry and giving him a serious look.

“There’s no guarantee it’s still here, but this is the furthest we’ve tracked it,” Isak was saying, breathless with urgency.

Something sharp poked his thigh. “Save them from what?” Evrille asked in a fae snarl, making Isak jump so hard the dagger she pressed to his leg almost cut off his favourite feature.

“Where the chasm did that come from?” he asked shrilly.

“Secret sheath,” she replied, teeth still bared. “Where is my family?”

Isak sighed, pushing the knife aside. “How much do you know? About the saints and their invasion?”

“Pretty hard to miss the latter,” Zamanya said in a rough growl. “But what do you mean saints? Which ones?”

Isak groaned, massaging his brow.

Isak, Viskae said in a breathless rush.

Little fucking busy. What is it?

“It’s a long story, and I don’t have the time,” Isak answered Zamanya, aware of footsteps crunching the dead grass behind him, the rest of his little troop closing the distance. Nosy fuckers probably wanted to know what they were discussing. “Jaro’s life depends on finding this gold box, and the ancient sword inside. It’s the only thing that can take out a saint. All their lives depend on it. Get your militia to help us search the ruins for it, and I’ll tell you everything as we work.”

“Their lives depend on a box?” Evrille asked sharply. “You can’t be serious. Where are they? Where is my brother?”

Isak jumped when Kaladeir and Harth appeared on either side of him, the two guards flanking them. “I promise I’ll tell you everything,” Isak said, holding Evrille’s stare so she knew he meant it. “But we need this sword. Immediately. I can—they have my mate, too, and I can sense her pain. They’re hurting her. The only way to stop that is to find this damn thing and fix the sword inside.” He gave the militia a contemplative glance. “I don’t suppose you have any saints in your ranks…?”

Isak, Viskae hissed, her voice loud enough to startle him.

“Not this again,” Kaladeir sighed. “The saints aren’t real.”

But Zamanya was grinning, and a ripple of awareness of her magic went through Isak when he met her eyes again. “Of course they’re not,” she said to the king consort with a little smile.

Isak straightened, hope choking him. He looked from the warrior to Evrille, another ripple going through him when she met his stare. “Both of you?” Isak breathed.

Evrille nodded.

Isak exhaled hard. This might just work.